'That's a very big brandy,' declared the Boss. 'I'll just get rid of a little then,' I replied, taking a big sip

If you’re out and about today you might bump into us, bleary-eyed and battle-weary, at the marvellous Festival Of Speed down at Goodwood House, along with tens of thousands of other motor car fanatics.

I say bleary-eyed and battle-weary because we will be embarking upon the fourth and final day of this year’s Children In Need Drive And Dine event.

We started off at my house on Thursday morning, and have been on the road ever since.

Chris Evans with his eldest son Noah on the first day of this year's Children In Need Drive And Dine event

First stop was the garage (which is actually an aircraft hangar – so rock ’n’ roll!), of Nick Mason – he of Pink Floyd.

Nick very hospitably showed us around his fabulous car collection, which includes many super-rare examples of those red ones from Italy I like so much.

But that wasn’t all. He also educated us in pre-war motorsport via a tour of his beloved Alfa Romeos. Simply stunning.

After Nick’s we took in Longleat and Laverstoke Park (Jody Scheckter’s wonderful organic farm) and a track day at Thruxton.

We also played golf, had a quiz, were taught how to make bread by master baker Paul Hollywood, ate the most delicious food of Georgio Locatelli and this morning stayed up until 2am listening to Tom Jones sing in the Teepee of Love (a truly wonderful space created in the garden of my pub).

And when I say we, I mean me, my friends, my family and colleagues plus the 38 generous winning bidders and their partners who paid over a million pounds in total to be there.

And some time this afternoon, seven of them will be racing up the world-famous Goodwood hillclimb trying to pretend they don’t feel quite as rough as they probably do.

Still, a 150mph blast in a 12-cylinder Ferrari should be enough to blow the cobwebs away. It usually works for me.

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One of my single female friends is in the middle of her latest drive to bag Mr Right.

Her most recent strategy consists of going swimming before work at the local pool four days a week so she can pursue the object of her desire.

He’s a hunk there whom she has nicknamed Splashy, due to the amount of noise he makes while achieving his undoubtedly impressive lengths.

But you know, I used to swim and make a lot of noise. I think it’s a male exercise thing.

Go to any gym and you’ll hear the guys dramatically huffing and puffing away while the girls quietly get on with whatever it takes to look fabulous.

In fact the only time I have heard any similar sound coming from a female was a few weeks ago when Eli, our second son, was being born.

But still it was no match for all the Mr Machos I’ve experienced over the years.

Can you imagine the noises they’d make if called upon to perform life’s ultimate miracle? Splashy and Not So Nicey.

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Drinking brandy on a Monday night, Tash gave me her friendliest death stare

I was sitting up in bed on Monday night, waiting. But for what? To go to sleep?

Nope.

For my next plan to take on the world?

Given up on that long ago.

For the meaning of life to hit me between the eyes?

No again.

In fact, I was waiting for the bloomin’ chickens to go into their coop, so I could lock them up safe from Mr Fox.

Waiting for the little darlings to turn in is my last daily domestic duty before I am free to drift off into my own land of nod.

This is not my favourite household chore.

All chooks are physiologically programmed not to go in before twilight. They roll with nature, man.

Of course, I can’t even begin to think of complaining about such things indoors as Tash is currently breastfeeding 24/7.

And if that’s half as exhausting as it looks then I’m certain I’ve never come close to being that spent.

And with baby-inflicted delirium, an unhealthy obsession in needless smartphone apps seems to have crept in under Tash’s tired radar.

She’s got one app that can take your pulse, and another that means you can dictate messages that are automatically turned into texts.

All very clever – but hang on a moment, isn’t that why texts were invented in the first place, because we don’t always want to talk down the phone?

Anyway, after finally sealing the deal with the chickens I ambled back into the house, pausing to pour myself a good boy brandy before making my way upstairs.

Now, our brandy glasses are made of extra thick glass, thereby giving the optical illusion that they contain more than they really do. I promise you this is true.

‘That’s a very big brandy,’ declared the Boss – ‘and for a Monday night too.’

‘I’ll just get rid of a little then,’ I replied, taking a bigger first sip than normal. ‘There you go.’

Tash gave me her friendliest death stare. It was at most a three out of ten.

For the moment I’d got away with a cheeky Monday-night overfill, but I fear there’s a brandy glass measuring app out there – and it’s coming my way very soon.

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Please, I beg the Government to do something radical about the demise of the village high street.

Lyndhurst, in the New Forest, has as much going for it as any village I’ve ever known – and yet still it suffers with increasing numbers of empty shops.

The tea shop on the corner by the traffic lights was particularly quiet last weekend, so I popped in with Noah for a cup of tea (for me), an apple juice (for him) and a crumpet with jam (to share).

‘How’s it going?’ I asked the guv’nor.

‘Ah, we’ve just sold up. There’s no point since the big coffee chains moved in. They’re killing all the local tea shops.’

So, here’s the thing. Why would the local authorities be so short-sighted as to allow a franchise you can visit almost anywhere else in the world to threaten a once-proud and not so long ago thriving high street?

Local identity and community via local retailers are the hub of Little Britain’s wheel.

And it’s Little Britain that makes us unique. Danny Boyle’s Olympic opening ceremony is said to shout out a similar ethos.

I think there should be legislation now to protect our home-grown small businesses.

Plus cash injections and subsidies before it’s too late. Our high streets are as important as our farmers, and they deserve the same help and support. There should be stringent laws about who can open up what and where.

Costa’s slogan on its vans and lorries reads: ‘Saving the world from mediocre coffee.’

Why is it that certain naughty things become so unpopular they are forced out of business but then dare try to creep back in a few years later?

The titanic sacks filled with thousand of calories purporting to be harmless bags of crisps, for example.

Then there are the armies of scary-looking windscreen washers who terrorise you into giving them a quid for jumping on your car the instant the lights turn red and daubing it with a filthy squidgy.

And lately, our old friends the charity muggers (or chuggers as they are more snappily known) have surfaced again.

These organised gangs of at worst intimidating and at the very least just plain annoying individuals are murdering the reputations of once great and worthy charities in a stream of dire, transparent and desperate chat-up lines.

I thought we’d seen the back of this lot once and for all. Whoever at the relevant charities thinks this is a good idea, please think again.

We abhor it and we’re beginning to abhor you.

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Lots of life’s adventures begin by starting with one thought and then going off on a tandem and seeing where you end up.

Of course, I know the actual phrase is going off on a tangent, but I heard this malapropism earlier in the week and quite liked it, so from now on I’m going to stick with it. It makes me smile.

Plus, I reckon actually going off on a tandem would solve most of life’s problems anyhow.

My wife had a pal at university who used to say she was the best thing since life’s bread.

We also heard from a listener on The Breakfast Show this week whose girlfriend thinks Glen Campbell has been singing about a ‘nine stone cowboy’ for the past 40-odd years.

Another favourite was the lady who often announced, when people began to panic: ‘Don’t worry, it’s all under hand’.

And finally there was the granny who referred to new-fangled technology as being ‘state of the ark’. I shall inform my son Noah immediately. He’ll be thrilled.

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CHRIS EVANS: 'That's a very big brandy,' declared the Boss. 'I'll just get rid of a little then,' I replied, taking a big sip